As a Forest Creature
by mooncustafer
Summary: Doc and Jewel, a secluded area. M  for sexual situations.


Out of chamomile again. Cochran supposed he should make another attempt at growing a few of the most useful herbs in the makeshift planter box by his cabin, but a garden implied...permanence, and though he had never fully expected to leave Deadwood, there was a difference between dying in a locale and deciding to settle down there. Besides, walking out to the hills did him some good; the air was easier on his lungs than the dusty, smoky atmosphere of the camp, and it was quieter than the camp too, all the quieter for the early hour.

Even the Perambulators would not be there at this time of year - their president and founder's hay-fever kept him out of the hills during months with an "R" in them, "like an oyster," Merrick had said. Normally the newspaper man's metaphors were tolerated, if not appreciated, by the doctor, but this one had made no damn sense and Cochran had said as much, and more; he'd been in a dark mood that day and the conversation with Merrick taking place after-hours, he'd already drunk enough to make himself quarrelsome. He flinched now at the memory of his rudeness.

Another one for his tally of failings, he supposed, like this latest poor devil in the brook, who, dead of natural causes (fall from horse, broken skin left too long uncleaned, blood poisoning) and therefore not destined for Wu's pigs, was being kept cool until burial arrangements were readied. Doc hoped the population had taken to heart his injunction, delivered in person and through Merrick (another reason not to quarrel with the editor), to fill their canteens further upstream, and if possible to boil the water, or tincture it with spirits – he suspected that last suggestion, at least, would be followed enthusiastically.

"Now fancy meeting you here, early riser." An unmistakable voice, slurred but sharp, took him from his dismal thoughts.

" 'Morning, Jewel." The Gem's cook had taken him unawares in a half-shaded clearing, like some fairy-tale creature. She carried a gunny sack nearly identical to his. "Trixie didn't send you out looking for medicinals, did she?" Jewel cocked her head primly:

"I'm here of mine own accord for salads. The camp's gettin' bigger, and I told Al the Gem's food ought to be more high-class." She pointed to a patch of greenery; cup-shaped leaves rising above a bed of heart-shaped leaves. "Miner's lettuce. Tastes like spinach."

"Well, there's plenty of it."

"We can take our time, then. Frolic in these woods." Cochran could not forestall a dry chuckle at the thought of the two of them consorting in a deserted grove not fifty yards from an improvised charnel-house; the idea was like some grim parody of romance.

"We - I'm not made for pastoral idylls. Besides, someone might need my services."

"They hadn't begun fighting each other when I left," Jewel countered. "Most of 'em are still asleep; and we can see the road from here if anyone comes to camp looking for you. Doc, you got to figure out where your responsibilities begin and end. _Especially_ where they end."

As usual he found himself unable to refuse her.

"Not here, though," she smiled wickedly, "we're liable to crush the salad greens."

Dew still hung on every leaf and stalk; choosing a spot that didn't look too uncomfortable, Cochran arranged the two gunny-sacks solicitously, like so many cushions, before sitting himself down with a gesture to Jewel to join him. The burlap was rough but dry. She seated herself, then lay back at full length, eyes shut luxuriously; he removed his hat and took the same pose beside her, their hands clasped. Above them, small gnats traced winding paths against the branches. It was yet still cool enough that the warmth of proximity was a comfort and additional pleasure to their intimacy.

"I s'pose the Indians of these hills, like their brethren elsewhere on this continent, keep away the insects by burning fringed sagebrush – there's some yonder, and I could've built a small fire, but the smoke irritates me as much as it does the damn flies. I find the eucalyptus oil keeps 'em off, and eases my breathin -" Jewel rolled onto her side to face him:

"You talk too friggin' much, sometimes."

"What I was *trying* to say was that I apologize for the medicinal odour."

"No worse than much else." She giggled, a harsh and entirely disarming sound. "I put some of Al's hair oil behind my ears when I want to scare off the little buggers." She tilted her head and pushed back her hair. "Smell."

Propping himself on one elbow, Cochran obeyed. She smelled of lemons; he kissed her earlobe, and immediately felt a hot squirming blush at the suddenness of the impulse, but Jewel only giggled again.

"Perhaps I should try some. Not from Al's personal supply, of course."

"Not if you want to stay healthy. Mind what I said just now about talking too much."

_Hypocrite, thought Cochran to himself. You profess yourself unabashed by the human body, but as soon as anything gets *you* hard, you're the soul of prudish convention._

He kissed the side of her neck, feeling her pulse beat three times beneath his lips; and could feel his own pulse beating, in a different spot. He let her take off his specs and push him back down on the burlap sack, and clasped her waist as she awkwardly swung one leg over him. Knowing her pride, he tried not to be too obvious in steadying her - but then the ground was softer on knees than the floor of the Gem, and his skinny body no great effort to straddle. Presently her elfin face hovered above his, grinning:

"Now I've got you in my clutches." Cochran thought he might add this to his little store of sweet memories, frail enough weapons against the thoughts that crowded him on sleepless nights. She was fumbling at his trousers now.

"Just a minute," he shifted himself slightly. With his left knee at a more comfortable angle and a fold of the gunny sack no longer sticking him between the shoulder-blades, he turned his attention to the top button of her gown.

"No." Jewel ceased her rocking beneath Cochran, who stopped, though his heart continued to pound. He wondered if there was any possible way he could've misinterpreted the situation.  
>"Takes too long to get dressed again." She pulled up her apron and her petticoats. "Be direct about it." Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. This time it was she who steadied him as he entered<p>

plunged recklessly

let go of everything

* * *

><p>Tired, the muscles of his lower belly a little sore with the thrusting they'd done. Light and emptied out, stroking Jewel's hair where it had come loose.<p>

She sat up and pinned her hair more or less back into place.

"May I have my sack, please? My responsibilities are starting up again, callin' me back to the kitchen. You'll be by later? No rest for the wicked," she added. Doc got to his feet and helped her to hers. Giving him one more kiss, she moved to the salad greens; he watched her a moment and headed to a sunnier meadow where, if his memory served him right, chamomile grew. It was indeed his day of the week to check the Gem; that meant he'd pass by the newspaper office on the way. Responsibilities. He sighed, and guessed that included staying on speaking terms with his neighbours.

Jewel's salad was praised that evening for its novelty.

"I reckon." Johnny ventured, "there's cooks in the fanciest hotels that wish they knew our Jewel's secret recipes."

"Think there's a pot boiling over," said Jewel, and Dolly, when she put her head into the kitchen a moment later, wondered why the cook was stifling a fit of laughter in her apron.


End file.
